Therefore, I Must Dream
by hehthar
Summary: Crossover: BBC's Sherlock and Nolan's Inception. Post-Reichenbach / post-Inception storyline. Sherlock takes a forced hiatus in America, where deducing the subconscious becomes his outlet until he can safely return to England. Genres are loosely labeled.
1. Prologue

**It's been brought to my attention that this may need a spoiler warning. It is post-Reichenbach _Sherlock_ and post-_Inception_ storyline in its "****non-dream finale" plot. As the ending of Inception was ambiguous, this story is based on the theory that Cobb _did_ in fact make his way home to his children in America, and that it was _not_ a dream. Argue all you'd like about whether this theory is wrong or right, but this story isn't about _Inception_'s ending scene. Sherlock and Inception crossover, not to be read if you don't like spoilers. If you're here, I assume you already know the ending to the media from which this story is drawn. Full chapters coming soon!**

**Prologue: Out of England**

Molly Hooper's eyes were wider than usual as she carefully placed one thick paper after another on the stainless steel table in front of her.

_Hands shaking, no coffee today, not from caffeine._

"And the falsified passport," Molly turned the tiny blue booklet over once in her hand before carefully adding it to the stack of papers. She took in a sigh slowly, but let it out quickly.

"Hardest part to come by," she added for emphasis, her wide eyes glancing upward for a hope of impressed gratitude. An anxious smile waited at the edges of her mouth, waiting, as it always did, with the ambition to someday become a beaming and confident grin. When no sign of thanks was received, she mechanically repositioned her gaze to the table, and she went back to silently organizing the papers.

_Sigh of…regret? Misfortune? No, a sigh of conclusion, finalization. Slowly in, quickly out. Wants me to thank her, and now regretting it. Hands less shaky, she's nearing the end. That's everything._

"Well, that's everything—" Molly began.

"I know," Sherlock picked up the stack of papers before she could finish. Her eyes remained wide, waiting for him to say something more, maybe finish her sentence before she even knew what she wanted to say. He should at least indulge her one more time. Sherlock mirrored her conclusive sigh she had let out moments before, hoping it struck a chord of familiarity to her present emotions.

Sherlock didn't have time for emotions now; he kept them locked away for future use. He never before imagined wishing to keep sentimentality close-by. Sentimentality was now transparently stored inside a glass box in his heart, labeled 'in case of emergency, break glass.' Now that he found he had room for such precious commodities as love, he had used the past months to build a casing for his emotions. What was once made of protective metal inside him was now made of glass. A dangerous and impractical way to store such vulnerable things as friendship, but nonetheless, no longer made of steel.

Steel, just like the table in front of him. Molly wasn't speaking, but staring at him now. Sherlock squinted at her as he tried to decide whether or not to let some sentiment flow through the thin cracks in his dominant personality. This time his sigh was genuine, slower altogether and far less conclusive.

"I can't thank you enough," he spoke with rounded edges in his tone, smoothing out the usual sharp angles in his voice. He kept his eyes fixed on her, and his words felt to him as more literal than emotional. Thankfulness wasn't currency, after all, but it did seem to be priceless when received.

He tucked the precious papers into his jacket pocket, and glanced around the morgue for a last intake of his surroundings, and felt the sudden pressure of Molly on his chest as she embraced him in a strong hug. With a small, throaty 'oomph' of surprise, Sherlock pushed down his instinct to repel this sudden human contact. Her head rested on his chest and she apologized quietly before she pulled herself away, and her eyes were no longer as wide as before.

"Just saying goodbye, sorry," she pushed the hair away from her face unceremoniously with three fingers, embarrassed. The edges of her mouth turned upward again in her familiar, lonely smile.

_Lonely smile._

Sherlock wasn't used to understanding deductions about people that held such an emotional factor. _Lonely smile_, he thought again, and felt such a smile begin on his own face, and he was very glad he couldn't see it.

He reached out with solemn and grateful arms before he even understood why. Then he spoke with rounded tones again, sentiment leaking like a cracked egg from his words.

"Until next time," he murmured as he embraced her again, his chin resting carefully on the top of her head.

As Molly pulled away, her lonely, half-upturned smile unfolded into a genuine, relieved grin. She nodded once, like a mother sending her child away to school, resolute and assured. Sherlock didn't smile, though the courtesy of such a gesture was evident in his eyes.


	2. The Importance of Invisibility

**Chapter One: The Importance of Invisibility**

_Expensive suit, body language of someone who keeps secrets for a living. _

Sherlock Holmes kept his posture as relaxed and as dominant as possible—as possible as one can in a metal chair without armrests. The café was expensive, but it had the stiff, uncomfortable chairs of a long-abandoned patio.

Dominick Cobb tapped his fingers on the round table that he and Sherlock shared. It was too small, but not unbalanced or rickety, so there was obviously an intentionally uncomfortable feeling about this café.

"What can you tell me," started Cobb, "about…me?" He leaned forward, curious and almost philosophical, in a tone that mimicked a university professor's. As if he addressed an entire classroom instead of one English man across from him.

_Slight, occasional shift of vocal cadence. Intent and studious._

"Your father is a foreign professor," Sherlock stared into space, though it appeared to Cobb as eye contact. "_Nnnot _American," he mused, a little quieter than before, "probably English."

_Ring finger on left hand, no ring but slightly less worn all the same; collar undone, no tie; sharply dressed; eyes keeping usual blinking rhythm. Right eyebrow constantly raised in attention._

"You were married once but that fell through." Sherlock's slight drawl meant he was growing bored, but then he noticed Cobb's sleeves, his ironed shirt but sentimental—likely father's—jacket. Sherlock's eyes fixed on Cobb's in a genuine moment of eye contact.

"In addition to your transparent body language and the fact that we're meeting in a lesser-known, expensive yet appallingly uncomfortable place either means that America has terrible outdoor cafés _or_ it means there is _not_ a dull repetitive structure to your job."

"Ah, the…the second," Cobb finished, ignoring Sherlock's small attempt at cynicism toward American cafés. Cobb was simultaneously impressed and disappointed; the slight disappointment was evident to Sherlock in the way he leaned back in his chair.

_Less interested than before. I've changed his mind about something._

"Am I wrong?" Sherlock let his mouth form around the last word in a static, impatient tone.

"No," answered Cobb as he brought his coffee to his lips, taking a sip as if signaling the end of the conversation.

Sherlock furrowed his brow as he watched the American put the cup's edge to his mouth. Something was not formulaic about this gesture. The color of the cup was a green and silver blend, and had been used many times before. It was easy enough to observe. But something as simple as a sip of coffee wasn't making any sense.

"You don't usually take milk and sugar in your coffee," Sherlock mumbled, almost to himself, though Cobb did hear him, shifting slightly in his chair. He studied Sherlock like a doctor would study an x-ray.

Sherlock brought his tongue to the front underside of his top row of teeth, as if about to speak the letter _L. _He brought his voice back from quiet musing to confident observance, as if something new had been revealed, though he didn't know what it was yet.

"You're enjoying that drink," he continued slowly, watching as Cobb brought his fingers to his chin. "Though usually you drink it black."

"Is that unusual?" Cobb squinted, posing another seemingly complicated question.

"No," Sherlock answered curtly, the nagging in his chest pulling slightly on his heart. Remembering metaphor of the glass box inside him, however, he let out a sharp breath to return to neutral, impersonal territory.

"Though you're not looking at your watch," Sherlock kept the impact of this observance as dramatic as possible by never looking at Cobb's watch.

"I don't have anywhere to be," Cobb's words rolled playfully off his tongue.

"No," replied Sherlock, "You don't have any _when_ to be. Forgive my poor grammar, though it seems necessary for one to become as absurd as one's surroundings. Adaptation…" he trailed off, recalling Darwin's evolutionary survivalist theories, followed by an image of a gigantic turtle.

"Why do those things elude you?" Cobb never missed a beat in the conversation, an infuriating but impressive trait.

"Nothing eludes me," Sherlock Holmes sharply replied, "but when someone is deliberately forging their intentions, speed bumps occur." The words with an _s _in them were particularly emphasized.

Cobb thoughtfully placed his coffee back on the tiny circular table. He waited several beats before engaging in his puzzling lyrics again. He folded his hands and placed them above his belt. Sherlock dipped his head slightly to the side, smoothing out the impatient gesture as he pretended to be more interested in his surroundings. Watching people pass by was like reading a book to the Englishman.

_That man has two children. That little boy has seen a loved one die. This woman is relieved to be home. This young lady is worried for a friend._

"What do you see?" Cobb had returned to a hunched over, curiosity-induced lean toward Sherlock. "In them?"

The detective looked plagued with boredom, his expression almost annoyed to give out information. Though, as always, a side of him was always excited to share what he could observe that others chose not to see.

He repeated his thoughts to Cobb, whose eyes lit up, washed away completely of the disappointment they had previously held.

"Incredible," the American said, two fingers pressed to his lips as he watched the individuals pass by. His English counterpart didn't look as interested.

"You need work," Cobb's words were bright but controlled, slightly slurred but holding importance. He continued to watch people stroll along, "And more importantly, you need a distraction. As I understand, they need to be under-the-table, temporary distractions."

"Mr. Cobb," Sherlock's tone descended into a lower pitch. He leaned forward as well, emphasizing a common ground between the two of them as he continued, "I don't expect to be in America for more than three years, but my privacy must be ensured. My relations here—and more importantly, my identity and existence—_must_ remain under the restricted knowledge of as few people as possible."

"Mr. Holmes," Cobb returned the gesture of formality, his words almost connected, inward excitement and promise linking together in a Californian drawl, "I know more than you would realize about the importance of social and political invisibility."

"Not more than I would realize…"

_Accused of murder (innocent); absolved by someone with significant political influence._

Sherlock offered a conclusive smile, although the grin did not reach his eyes.

Cobb smiled back, a glint in his eyes that tugged at Sherlock's nerves. Something was incredibly out of place.

"These people," Sherlock realized, the words barely making their way out of his mouth as he took in each new breath. Excitement replaced the oxygen in his lungs, and fear spilled out from his body with each exhaled breath.

"Exactly," Dominick Cobb expressed vaguely. He was nearly beaming as he observed the sudden change in Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock stood up slowly, anticipating a fight, and readying himself for flight. The situation was almost too simple to understand, and yet too practical to ignore. Cobb reached inside his well-worn jacket, drawing a heavy silver gun. Before Sherlock could register his circumstances, he was dead.


	3. Twice

**Chapter Two: Twice**

Sherlock jolted awake in an upright position, his forehead damp with fear. He was lying down in an unknown bed—

_West Hollywood, California, upper level of an expensive flat, I'm not the only person here, midday, likely 26 degrees Celsius—about 78 degrees Fahrenheit…_

"_Stop!_" he shouted aloud at his thoughts, which were always constantly calculating his surroundings. He had been shot, he remembered that much. He smoothed out and inspected the fabric of his shirt; searched for bloody stains. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. His novel mind folded back into reality, one page at a time.

"A dream," he whispered, comforted by the sound of his living voice.

"Sorry for the dramatic exit," Cobb's voice echoed from behind him. He was sitting upright on a large, soft couch, his body language controlled, confident, and willing to change: the stature of a man who lived every day in a realm of impossibility.

Cobb was pulling medical tubes and suction cups from his arms and wrists. The skin on Sherlock's own arm had been invaded with similar devices. He pulled them off quickly, though with some respect. He was still piecing together his wakeful state of mind. Rarely did nightmares creep into his conscious mind, and the knowledge of reality was still foggy with the blur of his dream.

A young man's voice carried into the room from the hallway, the words indistinguishable at first. Sherlock observed his reality. The room was empty and clean except for the bed, couch, and unrecognizable scientific objects. It had little to offer to him, except that it exuded an aura of smirking professionalism. An illegal service that was too imaginative to take seriously by those engaged in its activity.

The voice from the hallway drifted again into the room, and Cobb politely let an apologetic hum drift from his chest and into Sherlock's earshot. Cobb removed his freshly awoken body from the couch as he pocketed his hands, and waited for his companion to enter.

Sherlock's eyes freely scanned the newcomer.

_Expensive vest…coat, shoes…well-kept appearance. Young, tries to appear older than he is. Skillful, but always trying to prove himself._

"Arthur," Cobb spoke before the young man at the door even had time to breathe. "Potential new hire," he nodded casually in Sherlock's direction.

"It's alright," Sherlock annexed Cobb's vague and protective description, and stood up to his full height, "Arthur is obviously your closest partner in this operation."

"Obviously?" Arthur's eyebrows arched as he took in Sherlock's appearance with some cynicism.

Cobb held out one arm to the two men, "Alright, Arthur, this is a new hire who wishes for his identity to remain below the radar." Cobb brought his hand to the back of his skull, the gesture used to break the tension.

This made Sherlock clear his throat loudly.

"Deep, _deep_ below the radar," Cobb corrected himself, and glanced in Sherlock's direction for approval of this edit.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock addressed Arthur, who came forward to shake his hand firmly.

In return, Arthur's polite and professional eyes showed no recognition, although he repeated the uncommon first name aloud.

"Sherlock."

"Right," the Englishman replied in a short breath. Although grateful for the lack of recognition, there was a small, hidden part of him that was slightly uncomfortable with being thought of as an ordinary person in this American's eyes.

"You want some real coffee?" Cobb asked Sherlock as he rolled up his sleeves.

"Why do you always choose cafés for the beginning of a dream?" Arthur posed the question with a smile gently resting on his lips.

Cobb dismissed the question with a murmured excuse, "I've only done that twice," he clapped his hand on Arthur's shoulder and made for the hallway, gesturing with a lazy hand that Sherlock should follow.

The large kitchen was lit with expressive, almost blazingly artificial light from outside. It seemed all at once too white and yellow for reality.

"No coffee," Sherlock mumbled, hoping to exert as little energy as possible into potentially mundane conversation. As an attempt to be warmer, he added a drawn out, "Thanks…"

"Alright," Dominick Cobb always spoke in such smooth, even tones. Everything around him could have changed at any moment, and Cobb would be quick to adapt.

"How did I get here?" Sherlock spoke clearly as he tried not to sound too curious. He brushed the tips of the fingers on his left hand across a small, fully bloomed flower in a pot near the window.

"How did a morgue employee get her hands on a fake passport and plane tickets?" Cobb fired back, almost playfully, but his tone remained as smooth as ever.

Sherlock smiled to himself, amused and reserved. The flower's grey-blue petals almost looked teal in this sharp midday light.

"How did I get here?" he repeated himself, drawing out the words like a stretched string on a bow. The taut tension in his words was clear to Cobb, whose predicable movements were cut short by the English detective's sharp repetition.

"But…" Cobb edged him on, slipping his hands into his pockets expectantly.

"I'm not really…here," Sherlock's words slid from his mouth like molasses making a slow decent downhill. The observation was obvious: a repetition of color—the same shade of blue-grey. Sherlock placed two fingers delicately underneath the imaginary pedals he felt so realistically on his skin.

"The crispness of your clothing isn't realistic—" the words from Sherlock's mouth felt both foreign and familiar, like a language he had picked up while abroad in this unreal world. The deductions he made from observing his surroundings were both rational and impossible. Cobb's clothing was too perfect for a common gathering in a Hollywood apartment—especially after he (apparently) spent a whole day in them, and slept in them, mid-day, with a stranger at his side.

"I'm asleep, but," Holmes made sure to keep his words close to his chest, as if guarding a valuable hand of cards in a high-stakes poker match. "I'm not sure how."

To admit vulnerability was as shocking as admitting sentimentality. Sherlock Holmes was falling beneath his own standards, and it made him clench his jaw tightly in defense. He hoped this was a reasonable reaction; he had no basis for what might be a good defense for emotional standards and practices.

"To sleep once," Cobb began, his thick American accent like a digital slice of electricity to Sherlock's ears, "Is a familiar feeling."

He had placed two coffee cups on the round table between the two men, despite Sherlock's verbal decline. The detective stared at the hot liquid, wondering, in calculating terms, how 'real' the coffee could be in this state of mind.

As the numbers in his mind passed over the image of the cup, Cobb continued to speak in low, even tones, his own coffee in his left hand.

Cobb began, "Have you ever woken up from a dream—"

_Caffeine is synthesized in plants from the purine nucleotides…_

"—Where you were sure you were awake already?"

…_caffeine is a white colorless powder with a melting point of 227–228 °C._

"A double dream."

With this, Sherlock felt sick to his stomach, but it quickly jolted to his throat, causing him to stumble into the wall behind him, and he felt as if he would vomit. The sudden onset of dizziness and nausea left him scrambling for answers. Poison, medical illness, or drugs.

"What…did you do to me?" the letters stumbled out with as much difficulty as a drunken man on a tilted sidewalk during an earthquake.

With this, Cobb's reaction was less than soft or even as his temperament. He slammed down his coffee carelessly, moving to help support his guest at the wall. The American shouted down the hall, turning his head toward the hallway, but he never let his eyes break contact from Sherlock, and his concern was genuine. The words he let loose to Arthur were unclear, and as Sherlock faded away from the physical, he felt his grip on rationality diminish as well. He was well aware of the empty, black sensation surrounding him now. The time passed as slowly as possible, and he felt his stomach empty as well, the poisonous sensation had disappeared with his senses. If Sherlock believed in such a thing as heaven or reincarnation, this would be his acceptance setting. The feeling of bliss, weightlessness, and emptiness was connected like a spider's web of transcendent mental status.

And then he realized why his thoughts had strayed from such rationality and reason. He felt his body waking up from sleep. True, physically real awakening. The reality of knowing when one is awake, as opposed to assuming so while in a dream. It was a paradox of awareness that Sherlock didn't favor. Usually his dreams were either of a straightforward ludicrous nature or lucid enough to act as a sort of warehouse for his mind palace storage system.

He didn't care for a place of the in-between.

The hard 'k' of the final shock of his name was the first thing he heard. It was set on repeat, the hard, sharp letter finishing the word, almost literally 'locking' his name. _Was it literal? _Sherlock's subconscious mused playfully as he floated in a state of independent existence, his senses still reserved, safe for his hearing, which still identified those hard 'k' sounds emitting from the outside world.

_Literal isn't the right term. Grammar is as important as its context, important to note the word 'lock' in the name…_

He was awoken sharply from these thoughts, his eyes opened and his soul dropped into his body like a brick in water. In front of him was his new American accomplice, his clothing much more rational in the real world.

_Slightly disheveled but otherwise finely tailored cloth. Hair usually kept in a slick but expressive form. Worries about his children. Wonders if he will ever find love again. Brought up in a multi-cultural family._

Sherlock shoved Cobb's hands away; his new acquaintance had been anxiously gripping his arms in an attempt to wake him up.

"I'm alright," Sherlock let his words slide into an exasperated tone, nearly breathing the last syllable. He sat up from the cot he had been occupying for the past…He checked his phone, pulling it out from his right pocket. Ten minutes? He shot Cobb a wide-eyed, almost accusatory glance.

"You ought to start from the beginning," Sherlock snapped his phone shut to juxtapose the snapping of his verbal tone. Cobb looked as impressed as he did puzzled, and the detective before him was like a well-programmed computer. His hardware, software, and internal systems were exceptional, speedy, and efficient. But without the right download, he would never know what Cobb had to offer as an explanation.

"And ought to keep an open mind," the American began, a smile forming at the side of his mouth.


End file.
